


only yesterday, i carved out your name

by shecrows



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Sorry About It, ronan finds out fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shecrows/pseuds/shecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We don’t have time.</i>
</p><p>Ronan throws open the door to the building.</p><p>The silence that greets him is heavy. Fragile light pours in through the east-facing windows, showing him everything exactly as it was, and for a moment, he believes it: the <i>before</i> of it, preserved within these walls like a specimen in amber, the scars in the molding of the place where they’d hacked it into the shape of what they wanted one summer, when the shape of what he wanted was Gansey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only yesterday, i carved out your name

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be part of a much longer fic, but hey, shit happens.
> 
> ronan finds out fic. just what it says on the tin. how? why? when? doesn't matter. no, really. it's fine.

Ronan isn’t sure why it has to be Adam’s shitty little apartment.

Maybe because there are fewer things in it for him to break.

His knuckles are scraped raw and bleeding by the time he stops. Adam’s tiny living space looks like it bore the brunt of a renegade bulldozer, or a hurricane, a full-fledged fucking act of God, unrecognizable from what it was before. A thing torn to pieces. A deconstructed thought. Pale pink insulation bleeds out through several fist-sized holes in the cheap, thin plaster of the wall, the carnage of it dusting Ronan’s skin pale, settling like a thick film in the back of his throat.

Adam stands by the door, quiet as a graveyard. He never raised his voice or a hand to stop him – only watched, sentry-like and grim, as Ronan ripped apart what little Adam had to call his own. Somehow, that pierces through. Somehow, that makes it worse when this, to him, was _worst_.

Ronan wants to dream a million more rooms like this one. He wants to take something ugly and defile it, to prove that what he feels is uglier.

His heartbeat trips. The space around him blurs. His throat hurts like he’s been screaming, but he doesn’t remember making a sound.

Ronan’s rage bleeds out of every broken thing. The bloody, open wound of the place. The carcass of an animal left half alive.

 

+

 

Dawn is staining the edges of the sky pink by the time Ronan pulls into Monmouth. Adam’s car is there, next to the Pig, and Ronan wonders at it before remembering that hours ago he destroyed nearly everything else Adam had to his name. It wasn’t much to begin with. His hands still ache for more to do. He hooks them over the back of his neck and squeezes, Adam’s voice a taming presence in his head, neutralizing the acid corroding his insides.

 _We don’t have time_.

Ronan throws open the door to the building.

The silence that greets him is heavy. Fragile light pours in through the east-facing windows, showing him everything exactly as it was, and for a moment, he believes it: the _before_ of it, preserved within these walls like a specimen in amber, the scars in the molding of the place where they’d hacked it into the shape of what they wanted one summer, when the shape of what he wanted was Gansey.

Gansey turns in the chair at his desk like he has a thousand times, hair sticking up in odd directions like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.

“Jesus, Ronan,” he says. It’s bled through with equal parts exhaustion and relief.

Ronan’s heart locks like a muscle cramp, sharp and searing.

Gansey slumps against the back of the chair, rubbing at his eyelids under the thin wireframes, which ride up over his forehead. He looks faded in this light, washed out like an old photograph, a study in neutral tones. The shape of his mouth alone stands out against it, bright and raw and pink the way it gets every year when the weather turns cold, so mundane a thing that, on Gansey, it’s hard to look away from.

Death wasn’t always a mundane thing for Ronan. It took all of the twenty seconds between walking out of the Lynch family home on a Thursday morning and finding his dad’s head bashed in with a tire iron to change that. Twenty seconds to transform death into something everyday and normal, something that happens to real people. Even the ones he loves.

Gansey muffles a yawn into his wrist. Sunlight glances over his temple, catching on an unlikely curl, lightening the brown into something honeyed and warm. Ronan thinks with a force that winds him: _I’m not letting you die_. He thinks it like it’s the only truth left in the world. He thinks it until Gansey looks up again, meeting his eyes across the vast, high-ceilinged space, lenses rendering Gansey’s hazel ones inscrutable.

Then he goes into the kitchen.

Adam's dressed in his school uniform, a bottle of water held up to his mouth. He pauses when he sees Ronan, but the water doesn’t, and he’s ducking his head a second later as he reminds his throat to swallow, lips gleaming damp at the corners with the overflow. He presses the back of a wrist against them, smoothing the edges of a graceless moment into something implausibly elegant.

Ronan pauses. Twenty-four hours ago, the sight would have been unbearable, something he might have had to look away from, or pretend to. Now, over the low hum of the refrigerator, Ronan reframes that notion against what he knows.

“Can you keep it from him?” Adam asks.

 _Can you._ Ronan feels the weight in it, less a choice than what he can take. _Can you_. The line of Adam’s mouth is unwavering, receptive. For a moment he seems almost priest-like, stoic before the confession. Ronan wants to drop to his knees.

He breathes in slowly. _Whatever it takes_ isn’t a language in which Gansey is fluent; his tongue stumbles over the more ruthless syllables. This Ronan knows. He considers the shape of Gansey’s voice in the cave when he thought there were hornets, small and thin and colorless for minutes after they hauled him out. He considers the wasp on the windowsill, the image of Gansey so still and staring seared into his mind.

“Yeah,” Ronan says.

The word scrapes the roof of his mouth.

Adam nods as though he would have borne either answer the same. He sets the bottle on the counter a second before Ronan crowds him against it, arms unyielding on either side of him, caging him in, the air between them suddenly thick and close.

Adam smells like earth and motor oil, like a gutted engine. He meets Ronan’s gaze steadily, staring down into the black, burning heart of him without flinching. Ronan finds purchase there, heaves himself against it, the sharpness of hipbones digging into his own.

“You were going to do this alone,” he says. Anger sparks over the ache between his ribs, the sweet relief of it like a drug hitting his system, licking over everything like flame. This is a fight he wants to have. This is a fight he wants to have almost desperately. “You and Blue. You and Cabeswater.”

Not _alone_ , not quite. Just _without me_.

It’s shaped like an accusation, and he means it like one.

But Adam’s shoulders slump, relieved of some weight they were carrying or buckling under a new one, the shape of him miserable and small. It jars Ronan from his anger, robbing him of the clarity he’d so briefly grazed. Without it he feels friable, unmoored and shoreless. He struggles around a noise in his throat that cuts like glass, presses in closer, thoughtlessly seeking the steadiest thing within reach.

The tentative touch of a hand on his hip sends an exhausted shudder through Ronan’s body. Adam doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t even move his hand away.

Ronan presses his mouth to Adam’s, once and soft.

It feels less like something he should or shouldn’t do. More like something he’s meant to. It feels like a logical extension of the moment, of the way their bodies are leaning, propped together like a pair of shovels against a shed after burying something ugly.

Adam breathes out slowly through his nose. It’s warm on Ronan’s cheek.

Ronan pushes away too quickly to catch Adam’s expression – only, out of the corner of his eye, the faint impression of eyelashes darkly fluttering.

He storms back out into the main room. Folds himself into the couch without looking at Gansey and closes his eyes, throws an arm over them for good measure before snarling, “Parrish is staying here tonight.”

“What?” Gansey sounds as though Ronan has said something incomprehensible. “Why?”

Ronan swallows hard. “Because I trashed his place.”

“ _Pardon_?”

Adam’s footsteps are quiet as they emerge from the kitchen. They signal the start of a silent conversation over his head, a weighted thing that Ronan lets happen. It feels good, for once, to let it happen. He doesn’t want anything to touch him for a while.

On most other mornings, the audible pop of Gansey’s joints when he stands wouldn’t go unmentioned. Cheerful inquiry about the status of his AARP card, or a senior citizen discount. Ronan shifts his arm carefully, enough to allow him a sliver of a view as Gansey pulls the thick wool of an Aglionby sweater over his head, wireframes catching artlessly on the collar, the soundless _Christ_ around which Gansey’s lips move as he adjusts them. Just as carefully, Ronan shifts his arm back, throat tight with the afterimage, Gansey’s shape stark on the backs of his eyelids.

“You have calculus in an hour,” Gansey says. He moves closer, nudges Ronan’s splayed knee with his own.

Ronan stays very still. His eyes are weighted in their sockets. “Calculus before noon is Draconian.”

“I don’t disagree,” Gansey says reasonably, “but you still have to go.”

“Take good notes for me.”

“Ronan.”

His heart pounds. This could also be a fight Ronan wants to have.

Adam clears his throat. Another heavy, silent conversation fills the space around him, and there isn’t enough space around him, Gansey’s knee still stiflingly warm against Ronan’s, even through the layers.

At length, Gansey moves away. Ronan absently follows the sound of him: the sure character of his footfalls when he slips into his shoes, the jangle of familiar keys, the beat of silence before Adam follows, the heavy length of the door closing. It occurs to him that Gansey left without switching to his contacts, a rare enough thing that Ronan can’t help dwelling on it. He pictures Gansey’s head bent over the graph of an unbounded region, pencil shading tapering off the page in a shorthand for infinity, wireframes slipping down his lovely, straight nose.

He gets up once to lock the door. Turns, hands aching for something to do, or just aching. He can’t tell the difference anymore. But everything in the room looks like Gansey, and slowly, slowly, his hands unclench. Smashing anything in here won’t make him feel better.

Then, for the rest of the day, he dreams.

 

+

 

No matter how he words them, the dreams turn to dust in his hands.

He dreams of Cabeswater. He dreams of the caves, and of the bones inside the caves, all of them still and sleeping regardless of how many times he says _wake up_. He dreams of the image of a raven branded into the hillside, gleaming calcified white. He dreams of a tomb he’s never seen, holding Gansey’s words and sketches in his mind, taking shape only to crackle and fade like old paper. He dreams of things he’s only seen inked in whorls of black over his shoulders and spine in the hope that any of it means anything at all.

He dreams, at last, of fire and watches Cabeswater burn, curling in on itself and braying like a wounded beast, an endless, bone-chilling groan that seems to come from deep down in the earth itself.

After that, he stops dreaming for a while.

Monmouth is oppressively quiet. Ronan peers into Noah’s room without going in, finds it pristine and distinctly unlived in, because no one living ever has. There’s no sign of Noah himself, not even when Ronan calls for him, once, twice, voice echoing in the stillness. Chainsaw flaps onto Ronan’s shoulder the second he opens the door to his own room, nipping his ear in greeting, then nipping his fingers for food. Ronan procures a plateful of scraps from the fridge and leaves her to them. He snags the open bottle of water on the counter and drinks from it before remembering that it’s Adam’s, and that this is no longer the closest their mouths have ever been.

Gansey’s bed sits unmade in the center of the room. There’s an immaculate quality to it in spite of the rumpled sheets, the faint indentations on the surface of its single, spartan pillow. It’s warm to the touch, and even though Ronan knows it’s from the sunlight, he imagines that it’s from Gansey’s body instead, that a measure of him has sunk indelibly into the fabric, all vitality and heat. His hand splays over the shape of Gansey’s hip, then his calf, the bony jut of an ankle. He thumbs the edge of the mattress, over which Gansey’s toes always hang, curling and uncurling.

Ronan climbs into the bed without knowing why. It’s enough that he never has. It feels not quite forbidden, but also not quite permissible, hovering somewhere in the gray of things they don’t say out loud because it would threaten the shape of the things that they do. Because the integrity of what they are to each other has always meant more.

He closes his eyes.

The dream gives him nothing at first. It hangs back like a beaten dog wary of the boy who dealt the strike, the smell of smoke lingering and sharp, more real than a memory. Ronan draws on reserves of patience rarely called upon, waits for the dream to trust him again, tries to trust it back.

Suddenly he’s sitting on a cliff’s edge, legs dangling over sheer rock, looking out over sprawling Virginia. There’s a flash at his side, and movement, Gansey lifting an arm to shade his eyes with one hand. It isn’t particularly bright, but Gansey squints like it is, like something about the view below is painful to him.

“You never touch me here,” Gansey says, and Ronan knows he means the landscape of Ronan’s dreams, to which Gansey is no stranger. Even so, he has the odd sense that this dream Gansey is different from the other ones. “Why?”

“Nothing’s ever touching,” Ronan says, noncommittal. “It’s physics.”

Gansey looks at him sideways, mouth soft and wry, betraying just a hint of challenge. It’s so much like the real Gansey that Ronan has to look away, clench his fingers into a fist in the dirt. “Don’t be pedantic.”

Ronan shrugs, heart heavy and straining.

They sit in silence, one moment stretching into the next. There’s something off about the skyline, or about the trees and the shadows they’re casting. It clicks finally that the sky above them is deep blue but empty, that there’s no sun, no logical place for the light to be coming from. It gives the whole world a sense of containment, a diorama quality that makes Ronan feel as though he’s being watched and studied by some silent and hidden observer.

“You know, I can’t die,” Gansey says in a voice that flattens toward the end. It’s the voice he uses when he’s stating a fact that he dislikes, pointing out a thing that is but shouldn’t be, according to the whims and mores of Richard Gansey III. It’s the voice he uses for unpleasant truths, or dirty ones, like _It’s Declan’s decision_ or _It’s his father. Adam, the bruises, it’s_ —

Ronan gives his head a small, firm shake.

He’s seen Gansey die in his dreams hundreds of times. He’s seen his body covered in wasps, or hornets, or both, a vivid reenactment of the story he’s heard only once, either because it’s one Gansey doesn’t relish telling or because Ronan told him expressly, after the first time, that he never wanted to hear it again.

“You could have me instead,” Gansey continues. “Take me out, like Matthew.”

Ronan swallows hard. He still doesn’t look at the dream wearing Gansey’s face, claiming knowledge the real Gansey doesn’t have.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Death can’t touch me.”

“Stop,” Ronan says, hating the way it wavers.

Gansey laughs softly. There’s an edge to it that’s almost cruel. It’s this, more than anything else, that renders the likeness hollow, and Ronan understands. This isn’t a dream or a nightmare, but a torment. The offer isn’t even a real one; Ronan has never wanted anything less than this strange, cold Gansey beside him.

The glint of metal in Gansey’s hand draws Ronan’s gaze. He can look, now that the illusion’s been shattered, spoiled like fruit, and even Gansey’s small smile is overly sticky and sweet as he raises the knife and draws the sharp, gleaming edge of it across his own throat.

He bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, and Ronan watches, transfixed. He can’t speak. He can’t move. His hands are anchored to the ground and shaking.

Gansey’s smile never falters. There’s blood, bright and awful, in the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away almost thoughtfully with his thumb, neck still gushing slick and red, drags it in a solemn stripe over Ronan’s brow.

 

+

 

Ronan jerks awake to cool fingers on his temple. For a moment he thinks _Noah_ , but if it were Noah they’d be colder. “Adam’s staying at Blue’s,” Gansey says.

It takes a moment for the words to arrange themselves into something that makes sense. After a beat, Ronan supposes that they do.

Still, he asks, “Why?”

“Because he says you trashed his place.” There’s a lilt to it like Gansey’s smiling – Ronan suppresses a shudder at the impression the dream left behind, the other Gansey’s smile like a bad taste in Ronan’s mouth, and _Don’t think of that Gansey, remember this one_ – but his face when Ronan looks up is entirely devoid of humor, a sober twist to his mouth that Ronan knows too well. Gansey smoothes his thumb over Ronan’s forehead in the rough shape of a cross and says, softly, without a trace of irony, “Ego te absolvo.”

It’s everything and nothing like the dream. Ronan’s breath locks painfully, eyes wandering to the smooth, pale skin of Gansey’s neck. He doesn’t think about the blood.

“I wish – ” he says and hates, instantly, that he says it. Wishing is for children. Wishing won’t save anything. But Gansey is looking at him like he’s waiting for the rest of it, calm and expectant, hand no longer touching Ronan, but close. It’s in Ronan’s throat, a weighted obstruction. He sits up, neither of them mentioning the fact that he’s in Gansey’s bed or that Ronan knows, now, what Gansey’s sheets smell like, the precise, intimate texture of his pillow on the side of Ronan’s face, which left imprints. Sunlight is coming in through the west-facing windows, the sun chasing its own descent. Ronan has spent the whole day dreaming with nothing but another bad memory to show for it. He swallows. “Shit. I don’t know.” His heart heaves in his chest. “That you’d dreamed me, maybe.”

Gansey blinks, mouth curved in a tolerant half-smile, removed in a way that means he doesn’t quite understand but wants to. “Dream you up? That’s horrifying, Lynch.”

Ronan thinks about it. He thinks about a world in which Gansey could die, and supposes that it’s this one. He thinks about lapsing into sleep when it happens. He thinks about a world in which he’d conveniently stop having to go through the motions of life, were Gansey to stop breathing in it.

It doesn’t feel horrifying.

“What would I have to do?” Gansey is studying Ronan like he’s a puzzle Ronan isn’t sure he wants him to solve. “To pull you out of a dream.”

Ronan shrugs, the movement bigger, wider than he intends, a way to make space around himself. It’s a different version of a conversation they’ve had before, people instead of things, Gansey’s expression soft and pensive and ruthlessly engaged. He’s still wearing the damn wireframes, and Ronan envies, briefly, the easy shield of them, that they glint and scatter the light.

“Want it, mostly,” he says, voice croaking a little. From sleep. It has to be from sleep.

“Want it,” Gansey repeats. Then he nods. “And the – ” He waggles his fingers, mimes clutching something from thin air. “Actual pulling? I mean, what part would I focus on? I can’t very well hold on to all of you at once.”

This is Gansey the scholar, parsing through a problem for its solution, lining up the pieces with care and making them work in his head. It’s familiar in a way that draws Ronan back and settles him, the dream fading further and further into the manufactured shadows of a world without any sun to cast them. Still, the sense of containment lingers. He’s being watched, and this time, it’s Gansey who’s watching him.

“I don’t know,” Ronan says, and means _I don’t remember. It was a long time ago._

“Chainsaw?” Gansey prompts, close and patient and – impermanent. Ronan sees that now, can’t stop seeing it. This is the Gansey death can touch, and has. Ronan does not think _will_. He thinks instead of the naked, featherless creature he cradled in his hands that night, weightless and improbable, Gansey regarding it with an expression that couldn’t decide between tenderness and disgust, and settled on neither until he looked at Ronan.

“The heartbeat,” Ronan says.

Gansey smiles, faintly, as though the answer has charmed him.

It isn’t quite in the catalogue of ways Gansey touches him: this slow, deliberate reaching out, the width of Gansey’s palm spanning flesh and fabric over Ronan’s collarbone before moving down, down to flatten over Ronan’s wildly drumming heart.

Gansey makes a short, soft sound of surprise. Ronan’s renegade pulse spikes even further.

 _That isn’t what this is_ , Ronan thinks, and it isn’t.

He’d been fifteen and scared to learn what his body wanted when his heart said _be near him_. He’d been sixteen and ruined with grief, his heart a condemned building, boarded up and untenable, not fit to house anyone.

“What happened between you and Adam?” Gansey asks softly.

Ronan is seventeen, and Gansey is looking at him as though something about the truth in Ronan’s heartbeat could divulge the answer for him, as though he could divine it from the rhythm of blood pounding through Ronan’s arteries and veins. He considers the lies he could tell and hates each of them in turn.

“I don’t want to talk about me and Adam,” he says instead, steady where his pulse can’t be. When Gansey opens his mouth again, he adds, “I don’t want to talk.”

“Well,” Gansey says, lips thinning. “I don’t want to make you talk.”

“You could.” It’s sudden and honest. It’s tearing at a scab threatening blood all over his fingertips, and he remembers the broken, healing skin on his knuckles, clenches his hands hard to feel the ache in them. It’s obvious, too, and Ronan’s lip curls around it unpleasantly, turning the words sharp. They feel overlarge in his mouth, dangerous to hold there. “Make me.”

Gansey frowns. “I don’t want to,” he says evenly, but the light in his eyes goes flickering and strange. There’s a hollow aspect to his tone, a space where the conviction should be, a point in the middle where the sentence collapses. Gansey’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he rallies. “I don’t want to make you.”

Ronan’s smile is jagged, cutting into his face, because Gansey never lies until he does.

Once, on an afternoon much warmer than this one, Ronan held himself as still as he is now. Gansey changed the bandages on his arms and demanded a promise, the last thing of Ronan’s that he ever took for himself. As though he knew just by looking at him in those days how little of Ronan there was left to take. As though he could see the culling that was taking place inside of him. As though any of that would have mattered, if Gansey had only wanted.

“You could,” he repeats, like it’s simple. And it is.

Gansey stiffens. His eyes are bright and serious on Ronan’s face, mouth caught in a little moue of distaste that doesn’t quite extend to the rest of him. Moments like this bruise easily, but there’s a logic to them. Gansey can’t say what he wants. Ronan can’t say what he means. Words caught like flies in cobweb, held hostage in the dark recesses of their throats. And, somewhere in the middle, a silent, looming shape that looks like need.

All Gansey ever had to do was take.

 _He won’t_ , his mind supplies. _He won’t._

“Gansey,” Ronan says thickly, almost but not quite a whine, and swallows. It’s miserable.

Gansey follows the movement of his throat – with his eyes, then with his hand, chasing the bob with his thumb and curling the other fingers around the back of Ronan’s neck. They settle there, brushing against the sharp, shaved hairline, heavy and proprietary. Gansey ducks his head, pushes up against Ronan’s jaw, and their eyes meet halfway, nothing like a concession because all Ronan has to do is let him.

Gansey breathes in and breathes out, slowly.

“What happened between you and Adam?” Gansey asks again.

It’s a full one-eighty. It’s dark, ringing steel, settling in Ronan’s bones. Ronan could throw all his weight against it, and it would bear him. He leans forward, a fraction of an inch, and meets resistance, Gansey’s thumb unyielding on his windpipe, jaw set and tense, eyes curious but guarded behind their frames.

Ronan leans forward again, another half-inch. He swallows hard against the pressure.

“Ronan.”

Not _Lynch_. It’s gentle, but firm, an extension of the way Gansey’s touching him.

“You asked,” Ronan says. His heart is a mad drum. His heart is beyond him.

The line of Gansey’s mouth wavers. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

It’s a kind of truth: Ronan’s grief, a stale thing in his mouth, and a kiss that belongs, somehow, to both of them. Adam is here, the way Gansey was there, and somewhere, far away, the exiled parts of Ronan crowd close, and shake. They chase the shape of Gansey’s indrawn breath, draw him close, bear him down, the way he might have done, before. This salvaged kiss, barely that, seems paltry in comparison. But it rocks through Ronan’s body like an earthquake, leaves him trembling with the aftershocks.

Gansey’s fingers twitch against the nape of his neck, and tighten.

Ronan swears inwardly, flattens a hand over Gansey’s chest, and shoves.

There’s no fight. Gansey lets go of him easily. He looks steady, the lines of him certain, but his eyes are unfocused, wild around the edges. Ronan tears the glasses from Gansey’s face, and Gansey blinks, stares back, eyes wide and undefended. His lips part on an exhale, brows hitching, and he’s looking at Ronan like he’s trying to take him apart. It makes Ronan want to keep still, let him do it. And then it makes him want to thrash, just so Gansey has to hold him down.

“I dreamt you,” Ronan says helplessly. The words tear in the middle, hoarse and harsh and overloud in the sunlit stillness of the room. “You had a knife to your throat and couldn’t die.”

Gansey is looking at him so carefully. “Is that what you want?”

Ronan shudders. His shoulders roll with it, with the memory, and he reaches out, limbs stupid and clumsy, drags the backs of his fingers over the intact warmth of Gansey’s neck. It streaks red, dark and inexplicable. For one terrifying instant, Ronan thinks the worst. Then he realizes that the breaks in the skin over his knuckles have reopened with how tightly he’s been clenching his hands, relief surging through him, fractured and terrible. Only he can’t fucking tell which moment it belongs to: the one when he thought he’d brought the other Gansey with him, or the one directly after.

Gansey reaches for him. Slips his fingers against Ronan’s palm and thumbs over the torn, bruised line of Ronan’s knuckles, smearing blood.

Ronan sighs, the breath stuttering out of him.

“Come on,” Gansey says. There’s no room in it to refuse. It seals off the previous moment, or series of moments, and starts a new one. “Jesus, look at you. Come wash this off.” Ronan’s hand goes limp and heavy in his grip.

The sink runs red with it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://leighway.tumblr.com/).


End file.
